Requiem for the Junkyard Car
by Zaedah
Summary: I’m still learning. And there’s no room for that here...Miles fic.


I figured it was time to give my favorite couple a reprieve. I'm only sorry I can't make Miles more…manly. I couldn't find it in his nature. And I looked.

**Requiem for the Junkyard Car**

The circle of life isn't just for mankind, I realize. A cycle of existence can be placed upon any object, breathing or not. This very car, for example, which I'm currently propelling forward at a leisurely rate. I hear the honking behind me, but I'm in no hurry.

As I drive familiar roads, I take note of my interior. Simple, a touch out of date. Early 90's compacts have so little to offer ascetically. The engine sends vibrations through the floorboard, declaring that despite the occasional breakdown, it is still alive. Mostly. The square-ish body pushes through the heavy morning breeze. Not an aerodynamic marvel, this car, and I imagine how efficiently the air would be displaced by a newer model. Of course, one needs financial security to afford the sleeker vehicles of the Japanese. Said security could be a relatively short memory by day's end. Barely broken in the tires and it looks it's time to trade me in.

Not prepared to consider the looming conclusion of my month-old career, I ponder the fate of this transport devise. And I immediately see my uncle's new car crusher slam into my vision. He'd shown it off last weekend, the pride of the family junkyard. In truth, the thing scared me. The angry-looking behemoth was the centerpiece of McCabe conversation that day. The faithful old car logger was sold for scrap and the family was anticipating reaping the benefits of a larger capacity machine. Replacing a reliable tool with something bigger, better, more…well, reliable.

The car I presently entrust with my safety will one day meet its end in one of those things; my uncle might even insist I do the job myself. Not exactly returning the whole 'trust' favor, am I?

Having arrived at the NIH, I turn the key to kill the engine. And I sit. And sit. And some more with the sitting. I peer inside a few windows and see a steady flow of activity. He'd be waiting and knowing this creates dual responses. I am eager to stay right here in safety and solitude, but know the drumming will only be worse for the delay.

"_It has hydraulic systems mounted below the crushing deck, which reduces setup time."_

A replacement has probably been selected already. Newer, brighter, more confident. More like him. Qualities that should decrease the inconvenience of a transition phase.

_"It not only cycles quickly, but can be loaded with several cars, including large parts that can be smashed with a single stroke."_

It would be preferable that others be dismissed along with me. There'd be an odd sense of camaraderie to that. I suppose. Being the sole focus of the tirade makes it seem so unfair, so personal.

"_It uses four posts, one on each corner of the crushing deck, giving us tightly crushed cars and high reliability."_

I was never one of them, the tight unit that flows so smoothly from one case to another. The leader, the second-in-command, the negotiator and the liaison. Four wheels on a car and the spare in the trunk. That's me.

"_It has a wireless remote control, so there's no need for an operator to remain on the machine."_

They operate on a remote, overseen by a central figure but autonomous in their tasks. He can trust them to make independent decisions and carry them out with competence. I must be led by the hand, because I'm still learning the order of priorities. I'm still learning. And there's no room for that here.

"_We used to crush 600 to 700 cars a year, and send the rest elsewhere. But we want to increase our profits, plus crush them all themselves."_

He could have sent a memorandum, something official on NIH letterhead. Something cold and impersonal suited him. Maybe sent me to an administrator to give me the news. I'd have preferred anything that avoided direct confrontation. But that's not his style. Nor is sugaring the facts or maintaining a professional volume. He'd want to do this himself, well aware that I will sit mute and compliant, never challenging. I'll be lucky to utter a syllable.

"_It runs on a 156 horsepower, 6 cylinder, 6.8 liter, turbocharged John Deere diesel."_

Mechanical specifications are not my forte, so my uncle's impassioned description had little impact. It sounded impressive enough, but entirely foreign. There was no real-world application I could give to it. I'm not a 'car guy.' Sometimes my boss's instructions come across this way. I get a little lost in the details when he's trying something unorthodox. Because I haven't enough practical application to fit it into what I've brought from medical school. I just haven't had enough practice, I gesture my raised palms to the ceiling as I walk the lonely hall to his office. Peeking around the corner, I see him at his desk, studying something that could well be my replacement's resume. And the comparison hits me.

His office is a junkyard.

I am a tiny compact car.

He is the car crusher.

The cycle of a vehicle's life now mirrors my own. I swallow, then forcibly move my feet forward. I can only hope all cars go to Heaven. I silently vow to never get rid of my trusty mode of transportation. It's just seems wrong to contribute to the depressing cycle.

Before I can slink into chair, he stands. I think perhaps I must stand too. As though I were a child, I look up as he stares me down. I briefly wonder if it's humane to terrify the victim before striking the final blow.

"_The lid comes down to within nine inches of the floor__."_

And when he decides to speak, I cringe; the lid beginning its appointed task of squashing me.

"Don't rely on others to catch your mistakes. If you don't understand something, you come to me." The scolding lacks venom. A pause in the mechanism?

I nod rapidly, a close facsimile of a bobblehead. He's already looking back to his papers, then remembers I'm still here. Probably heard my knees clanging together.

"Get to work, doctor."

And with that, the crusher spares the car.


End file.
